


Murderfest

by kornevable



Series: Sportsfest18 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!, Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15030026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kornevable/pseuds/kornevable
Summary: Stand-alone fics written for murderer/gang/mafia AU prompts during Sportsfest 2018.





	1. haikise + aomine

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooo
> 
> So this summer there seems to be a general consensus that murderfest prompts are Great, so I decided to compile them all in this collection. Each fic is a stand-alone and fills one prompt, which I will link the original!
> 
> Enjoy~
> 
> [First one](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/7464.html?thread=193832#cmt193832) is HaiKise + Aomine; TIME: Right before setting off for the newest mission; PLACE: In the briefing room.

There is nothing more irritating than waking up at the crack of dawn to see Daiki's mug, but on the bright side Shougo can slowly swat the drowsiness away by taunting him. It's no secret that the two of them don't see eye to eye, so whoever decided to send them on a mission together is a dumbass. He can't say to Akashi's face that he's a dumbass, though.  
  
"Cheer up Shougo-kun, we haven't been on an assassination mission in a long time," Ryouta points out, smile always plastered on his face.  
  
" _You_  haven't been on a mission like that in a long time," Daiki corrects with a shrug.  
  
"What he said," Shougo says.  
  
"How come the only way to make you both agree on something is bullying me?"  
  
Shougo cackles, and when Ryouta shoves him for doing so he only laughs harder. It's just so easy to poke fun at him.  
  
"What a boyfriend you are," Ryouta mutters.  
  
"Don't start smooching right in front of me, or I'm going to kill you both."  
  
Shougo, as the mature assassin he is, smirks and grabs Ryouta's arm. He's quite glad to see that sometimes Ryouta's pettiness gets ahead of him, and when their lips find each other they can hear Daiki groaning and swearing to every deity that has the stupidity to listen to him. It might be considered as just a brief and sloppy kiss for their standards, a simple contact between them that doesn't last long enough, but it still brings some satisfaction to share it before a mission. Shougo kind of missed being paired up with Ryouta; they've been working together for not as long as Ryouta and Daiki have been, but they complement each other and don't need to talk much to know what the other is thinking.  
  
When they part, Ryouta is grinning and he sends a wink in Daiki's direction. The latter makes gagging noises.  
  
"If you guys are done, can we start working? I wanna go back to sleep."  
  
"Of course you do," Shougo replies with a roll of his eyes.  
  
"Aominecchi, do you have our supplies?"  
  
Daiki points to the pouch he's carrying on his belt, on the opposite side of where he keeps his gun. By the size of it, Shougo guesses that he has all the necessary poison and small grenades they are going to use. He personally thinks that they will be done relatively quickly, and that all these gadgets are useless, but he's not the boss.  
  
"You guys remember the plan? Akashi told us to shoot only after the target gets close to the window."  
  
"Yeah yeah, I know. Don't mess up Ryouta."  
  
"Do you want to prove who's the better shooter?"  
  
Ryouta has that challenging look on his face that highlights his more cunning side and yeah, Shougo remembers why and how he fell for a guy like him.  
  
"You're on."  
  
Daiki is trying to say something but Shougo cuts him off, marches towards the door, and is the first to step outside.


	2. himukise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/7464.html?thread=415272#cmt415272)  
>  TIME: slightly after 1AM  
> PLACE: in a parked car behind Family Mart.

Kise opens the door and lets himself carelessly collapse on the backseat. He heaves a sigh, waits for the world to stop spinning, then laughs.  
  
"Hey, Himurocchi."  
  
"Welcome back."  
  
Himuro is smiling, though his gaze is sharp and cold, checking Kise's body for any injuries. It's a routine, something they get used to easily, and Kise isn't going to complain about the particular attention he's getting. Today is not different from the other days.  
  
“Your midnight snack,” Kise jokes, handing a chocolate bar to his partner.  
  
From the driver's seat, Himuro accepts the gift with a chuckle. He doesn't comment on Kise's shaking fingers or the trail of blood on the backseat he'd have to scrub later. He just takes the chocolate bar, unwraps it, and bites into it. Kise thinks that it's a bit of a crime to always look good in any kind of situation—Aominecchi is always saying he looks stupid when he's eating, but doesn't say anything when it's Himuro. He straightens himself, kicks off his dirty shoes coated with mud and other brown liquids among which must have been blood at one point, and leans forward, his cheek resting against the driver's seat.  
  
“I think we have to move,” he says quietly, but his lips are still curved upwards.  
  
“There is a car waiting on the other side of the Family Mart,” Himuro answers with a nod.  
  
They haven't been that subtle when they came here, and maybe they could have avoided being followed, but these past few weeks have been so boring, so normal, that Kise thinks it's not that bad. He knows Himuro agrees with him. So they both welcomed the black car tracking their path from afar, waiting at every corner and jumping at the chance to catch them. Kise let them. He let himself be surrounded by three guys looking for a fight and a head to bring home, and a fight he gave them. He wore a smile for its entirety, growing each time a slice was made or a scream was heard. Their bodies lie as still as the night on the pavement.  
  
Himuro is humming. He's finishing his chocolate bar, eye focused on the road. The Family Mart is on their right, bright light illuminating the lone cars parked in front of them; the one they're watching isn't among them, though, it's waiting on the other side, at the entrance of the shop.  
  
“Well, do you want to show them what you're capable of?” Kise asks.  
  
He reaches for a box under the seat, and retrieves a gun, spotless and regal in its carvings. A prized possession, probably, that their boss is willing to show off to the whole world. Kise loads it, removes the safety, all in great precision despite his sight swirling. Maybe he's toying a bit too much with luck.  
  
“I've got you covered.”  
  
He leaves on the backseat three cartridges of bullets. It should be enough.  
  
Himuro crumples the wrapper and simply throws it on the passenger's seat. He adjusts the mirror, corrects his position, and sends a wink at Kise. The latter grins.  
  
“Give me a good luck kiss?” Himuro says.  
  
Kise laughs, steadies himself by gripping the seats, and angles his head. Himuro smiles and meets him half-way, softly pressing his lips to Kise's, nothing more, nothing less, a spark of a glimmer too dazzling for who they are. It's a routine they easily get used to.  
  
“Let's give them a good spectacle,” Kise whispers, one breath away from Himuro.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Kise gets back to his seat and lowers the windows. Himuro gets the car started.  
  
He pushes on the pedal.  
  
The screech of the wheels calls the howl of victory, and Kise gives these men a peace sign, before firing.


	3. kita & osamu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/7464.html?thread=396584#cmt396584)  
>  TIME: the minute before a phone call  
> PLACE: a random back alley.

This could have been cleaner, and god knows that Kita is meticulous about it, but Osamu would argue that doing a clean job is harder than it sounds. To be fair, he tries to keep splashes of blood and trails of dirt to a minimum, but when your opponent isn't cooperating and likes to paint the walls of a small alley with pristine crimson, it can't yield a satisfactory result.  
  
“Well, at least the target is dead,” he comments, shrugging.  
  
“And so is your shirt,” Kita points out, staring at the hole in Osamu's side and the torn sleeves.  
  
Osamu gives a short snort, still tightly wrapping an arm around his middle to prevent his body from emptying his blood stock. Strangely enough this doesn't feel like the worst of it, one would think that getting stabbed would ring some alarms in someone's mind, but Osamu is so used to mundane wounds like this one that he doesn't consider it an emergency. Emergencies would be getting shot in the chest, or drinking poison, or having a literal bomb strapped to your back (an experience he doesn't want to relive ever again). Sure, it's a bit painful; everything in life is painful anyway, a physical wound is almost more bearable than a trauma, or something.  
  
He glances at his boots covered in red. He can see the fingerprints dragging to the end of the shoes, remains of the last efforts of a dead man. Leather boots, he learned over the years, are way more practical and less likely to keep a stain, and Kita was pleased to know Osamu chose them. He could go on his expeditions with rubber boots, but it's not very threatening, right? And the squishing sound it would make when walking into a puddle of blood would be atrocious and kind of disgusting.  
  
The moment he bends down to pick his knife, he jumps out of his skin at the sound of something vibrating. He exchanges a look with Kita, and with his permission, he reaches for the phone in his pocket. It's true that it's past their usual time. He doesn't wait for the one on the other side of the line to talk.  
  
“Target killed, rest assured.”  
  
“I wasn't worried,” an identical voice answers, sounding annoyed. “Just checking.”  
  
“Well, check you did.”  
  
A sharp metal noise echoes. Osamu looks up. Someone is standing at the end of the alley, looking more beaten up than the one on the ground, and that is quite a feat since Osamu didn't really go easy with his blade and his kicks.  
  
“Let me,” Kita says, perfectly calm, like always.  
  
He takes out his own knife, while his gun is still secured in his pouch. Osamu will never get used to seeing his partner splattered in blood.  
  
“What's going on?”  
  
A roar is the signal to move. Kita swiftly dodges the raw and imprecise assault, lifts his weapon and brings it down into the man's shoulder. The guttural scream he lets out can render someone deaf, and Osamu is surprised that this doesn't wake up anyone in the vicinity.  
  
Oh right. Deserted neighborhood.  
  
“Nothing, just taking care of one last detail.”  
  
He doesn't hear it, but he can see the way the blade turns and turns the flesh, ensuing more screaming of pain and ragged panting. Another attempt at getting to Kita is made, but shooting point-blank actually requires more technique than it seems, and Kita easily deflects the attack by shoving a smaller dagger into the wrist. Everything is done without a speck of blood on his clothes or his face. Even the gross drops of blood landing on the ground don't dirty his shoes.  
  
“Okay, don't take too long.”  
  
Kita is barely moving, at this point, not a scratch on him. He murmurs something, asking a question probably, but he only gets a snarl as an answer, so he sighs. He pulls out his knife, allowing the blood to freely pour onto the man's body like a waterfall of fire, and without hesitating a second he plunges it into his neck in one precise and commanding thrust. Everything spills; red liquid and red breath.  
  
“I think it's finished.”  
  
Kita steps aside and lets the body crumble. The legs are twitching, one last time, before the pool of blood beneath them are evidence enough of his chance of survival leaving him. He never stood a chance anyway, not when he decided to mess with one of the scariest people on Earth. Kita carefully takes back his weapons, always minding the droplets of blood, and quickly wipes them with a cloth. He puts them away and nods at Osamu.  
  
“Come back, then.”  
  
Osamu hangs up.


	4. miya twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/7464.html?thread=464936#cmt464936)  
>  TIME: Fallback time  
> PLACE: Fancy party in a classy mansion

“This smells bad.”  
  
“I don't want to know what kind of food you're trying to eat.”  
  
“No, no, I meant it figuratively, something's fishy.”  
  
“You're doing it on purpose.”  
  
Atsumu grins behind his hand, trying not to laugh too obviously. They've been successful so far, it would be quite a shame if they are discovered because he couldn't remain calm and professional—well, as professional as one expects him to be on this kind of mission. Osamu is on the other side of the room, surveying his surroundings and looking mildly annoyed at his brother, even at this distance. Their earpieces are small enough to be unnoticeable from a quick glance, but they shouldn't let down their guard; the glare Osamu sends him in his general direction is the only warning he'll get.  
  
The target has shown up thirty minutes ago, but he's always flocked by a bunch of people that are just accessories, which impedes a lot on the clean kill they're supposed to execute. Such a fancy ballroom shouldn't be tainted by the blood they will spill, right? Atsumu doesn't see why they can't straight up blow up the mansion and then make sure the target is killed—apparently it's too much paperwork and doesn't ensure the objective, or whatever. Well, actually, upon closer to the many exits of this place, he can see why it will fail; the target has plenty of time to escape or to get rescued. Nevermind, he's just too hungry after looking at all these delicious foods for the whole evening.  
  
“Don't get distracted,” Osamu snaps.  
  
“I'm not, I'm thinking,” Atsumu replies defensively. “Don't you find it odd he's still chatting with these—oh shit.”  
  
“What? What?”  
  
He hasn't imagined it. Someone has been watching him for the past few minutes, and judging by their sunglasses and their unfriendly face, Atsumu isn't welcome here. He bristles under this intense gaze, and heads towards the exit.  
  
“I've been found out,” he whispers into the earpiece.  
  
“How did you get found out?! What did you d—fucking hell.”  
  
If Osamu drops the filter, they really are fucked.  
  
A quick glance behind tells him that the guard is following him and, well, that promises a good game.  
  
When Atsumu goes through the doors, he breaks into a sprint. They can't catch him, not if he gets out of their sight. He runs, never stopping, turning and turning and getting deeper into the mansion; his legs carry him to the back entrance, and if he remembers correctly, it directly leads to the parking area. That should do, their car is still there—he hopes so, at least.  
  
He doesn't get far. At the corner of the corridor someone jumps in front of him and immediately goes for his throat, hands ready to grab his neck and probably squeeze the life out of him. He almost had him; fingers ghost over his skin, but he ducks just in time, and proceeds to tackle his opponent. Atsumu isn't the most well-built guy in the vicinity, but he does his job, and puts all his weight on the fool that dared challenge him. They're on the floor, one restrained and the other free; Atsumu displays his best smile, the one reserved for his victims, crooked and just a little bit insane.  
  
“Nice to meet you, and goodbye.”  
  
He pulls out his knife in one swift move, hidden in his belt, and doesn't think twice before plunging it into the guy's neck. He's wearing gloves, but that's still a messy work; he feels the blade pierce through skin and flesh and muscle, allowing red liquid to flow freely onto the carpet and between his fingers. There is hardly a scream, more of a gurgle that spills even more blood and Atsumu pulls a disgusted face when some drops land on his jacket. People just don't want to die without leaving one last bad impression.  
  
He withdraws his knife, carefully, and gets up. Well, that was disappointing, but fast. He shouldn't linger, lest he'll be caught by another guard.  
  
He pushes the doors open and scans the area. Nobody's around; they're probably all looking for them inside the mansion, and maybe just late for the parking inspection. Atsumu groans and taps his earpiece.  
  
“'Samu, where are you?”  
  
“Somewhere between life and death, but more leaning towards life, I hope.”  
  
What the hell?  
  
“If you're dying I'll kill you myself.”  
  
“Don't worry, you're not getting rid of me that easily.”  
  
Atsumu is looking for their car while frantically hurling insults at his brother, whose words were becoming a bit slurred and he'll be damned if he gets out of here alone.  
  
When he finally finds the car, he hurries towards it and unlocks it. He opens the door of the driver's side, and promptly yells.  
  
“Fucking shit, 'Samu!”  
  
Osamu is sprawled on the passenger's seat, holding his stomach with a bloody cloth, only looking up at Atsumu's scream. He looks completely disheveled, hair sticking in every direction and clothes clearly needing some stitches here and there, without mentioning the the red trails that travel all over his cheeks and his hands. He purses his lips.  
  
“Hurry up, they were too close to my liking when I managed to get here.”  
  
“Gods, you'd better hold up until we arrive.”  
  
Osamu rolls his eyes, and Atsumu scowls at him. No time to waste, they have to get going. He can hear people shouting, and that's their cue to turn the key and disappear.  
  
Hopefully their failure won't be too much of a stain on them.


	5. haikise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/8539.html?thread=1070683#cmt1070683)   
>  _Oh elope with me in private and we'll set something ablaze  
>  A trail for the devil to erase_
> 
> \- Belle & Sebastian, "Piazza, New York Catcher"

Being alive has never been so fun. So vitalizing, to be more accurate, but if they're enjoying themselves then they can only be energized, right?  
  
Kise drums on the wheel on the car, listening to his boyfriend hurling insults at whoever on his heels in his earpiece, and that makes him chuckle. They aren't playing anymore, so he guesses he can let Haizaki express himself as much as he wants.  
  
“Hurry up, or I'm leaving without you,” he teases.  
  
“Fuck off, I'd like to see you lose five guys who want your fucking head on a silver platter!”  
  
“To be technical, they also want mine.”  
  
“Shut up, Ryouta.”  
  
Kise rolls his eyes but he's still smiling. He can hear the erratic way Haizaki is running, and what must be gunshots in the distance; they really are serious, and don't plan on aborting their mission anytime soon. Well, they asked for it.  
  
The car's engine roars and then Kise is flying by, driving in empty roads then dodging the other cars as he approaches busy districts that never sleep. The shrilling of the wheels are warning enough for anyone wishing to stop him, which means that he arrives at his destination in less time than expected. He hasn't killed anyone on the road and he's still alive, so he considers this a victory and the good action of the day.  
  
He slams on the brake and the car screeches, drawing the attention of everyone, civilians and fools alike, and with a gun in his right hand, he opens his window with his left hand. He pokes his head out, grinning.  
  
“You're making us late, so have the decency to disappear, alright?”  
  
He doesn't particularly aim to strike true; he simply pulls on the trigger, making these guys scatter and scramble. He's just buying time for his blockhead to get into the car, and when the passenger's door slams closed with more strength than necessary, he immediately stops his random firing and throws his gun in Haizaki's lap. The latter scowls.  
  
“Don't just fucking show up like that without warning me, asshole,” he grumbles.  
  
“What, you don't like being surprised?” Kise laughs, pushing on the pedal. “We're supposed to run away together, if I leave you behind that defeats the purpose.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Haizaki heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when his fingers come out bloodied. Well, either someone landed a good blow on his head, either he didn't clean the blood he spilled. Kise hopes it's not the former.  
  
His driving skills aren't spectacular and are even borderline hazardous since the concept of speed limit doesn't apply to him, but in this kind of situation it feels justified to break the law—in a completely innocent way, not the bloody and insane way. They're increasing the distance between them and their pursuers, unperturbed and rather confident in their escape. Haizaki looks in the rear-view mirror, and smirks.  
  
“Guess we lost them.”  
  
“That would better be the case, I don't want to drive any faster than this.”  
  
“As if you'd pass up the opportunity to drive like a madman.”  
  
Kise smiles, and that's enough of an answer.  
  
They keep driving for another ten minutes in silence, and when they arrive at their hideout, Kise stops the car. They stay inside for a moment, listening to the night swallowing their words.  
  
“We can't turn back, now,” Kise whispers.  
  
“You having regrets or what?” Haizaki snaps, sending an unimpressed look in Kise's direction.  
  
“Of course not, I'm just realizing that it's real.”  
  
Kise's lips remain curled upwards, and he looks at Haizaki with such a fiery gaze that there is no way he isn't excited at the prospect of being on the run. Living in the shadows, watching every one of their steps, relying on no one but each other—that sounds like a life they should have started a long time ago. Just the two of them, away from the bustling of the underworld they can't stand anymore, away from people they can't trust anymore.  
  
“Yeah well, we gotta get out of there real fast first,” Haizaki reminds him, getting out of the car.  
  
“Hey, Shougo-kun?”  
  
Kise does the same, stands on his side of the car while Haizaki is looking at him over his shoulder. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, searching for the best way of saying what's lodged in his heart—and decides that there is no need to embellish words, not after all this time.  
  
“I love you, you know that, right?”  
  
The words stick to the air, gently filling it with familiarity. Haizaki snorts and starts walking, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
“Don't be stupid, idiot.”  
  
Yes, just the two of them, doing what they think is right, and letting the world burn for all they care, if that's what should happen.  
  
Kise bursts out laughing, unburdened, and follows Haizaki into the hideout.


	6. miya twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt:](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/10320.html?thread=1673552#cmt1673552)  
>  most likely to seek revenge through impersonation

You don't really know why people try so hard to draw a line between you and your brother; sure, you often get mad when they're lumping you together with his stupidity, but it's not nonsense when they say that siblings, and even more so twins, share a particular bond that tingle every fiber of their being. You know his antics, he knows yours; you've been brought up in this environment as far back as you can remember, and even though you've fought many times over frivolous things, you can dissect the important aspects of his personality and his attitude.  
  
Atsumu is lying in a hospital's bed, unaware and absent from anything happening in the world. He sleeps with the most neutral face you've ever seen, like someone else took his place under the sheets and is trying to tell you that the whole situation is kind of laughable, resembling a grotesque painting that failed at being sentimental. You don't really care. You only take into account the facts, and right now they tell you to let fire blaze and drag along the remains of anger.  
  
It's easy to slip into a new name. It's easy to move with a body that looks like yours, not exactly the same but close enough to figure out how to replicate down to the last dot every step. Quietly, unrelenting, you follow the shadow, hiding inside it as you make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. Nobody is paying attention to you. You want to play a bit.  
  
The swift knife that slides against the target's neck is as sharp as your voice dropping an octave.  
  
“Guess I'm not dead.”  
  
The target tries to turn around, startling against the knife, but you grab his left arm and firmly keep him still. You've been told you don't know how to control your strength, and judging by the face twisting in pain, you suppose it's right—why control what enables you to stand above and assert dominance?  
  
“You wanted to make a clean kill, but it's harder than it looks.”  
  
“You should be dead, that's impossible.”  
  
You let out a dark chuckle, reverberating against the walls encapsulating you in a pocket of time. Oh, irony, irony.  
  
“Make sure your corpses are corpses, next time.”  
  
“You've said that multiple times, before running away. That's not very convincing.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
It's easy to slip into a new name. There are notions and expectations attached to a name, and right now, you think that you are honoring them quite well. Maybe you should drawl your words a little bit more to perfect the illusion.  
  
“Well, I can't say you're always here to witness my amazing skills.”  
  
“Even at death's gates, you are a buffoon, Miya.”  
  
Time is shrinking on you, on him, and the feral grin that spreads across your lips is taking the colors of two bodies.  
  
“Which Miya do you think you're talking to?”  
  
You physically feel the target going rigid, and you tighten your grip, never letting him have the satisfaction of seeing a face before being sent to hell.  
  
“Os—”  
  
He aborts a move to retrieve his weapon in the inside of his jacket, but that's already too long. Your blade sinks into the flesh and blood spills all over the stage, marking it with cold victory.  
  
You follow your (his) advice, and turn your head to take a close look at the body. Won't be waking up ever again, that's for sure. You take back his (your) knife soaked in blood, but don't bother to wipe it clean; you can do it later, to fully enjoy what you did for his (your) sake. You can even add another name to your (his) tally.  
  
You (He) admire one last time your work, and leave(s).


End file.
